


And the rain will beat against our bulwarks

by takingoffmyshoes



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Canon Era, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, merlinchristmasfest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 23:50:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3097136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takingoffmyshoes/pseuds/takingoffmyshoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sickness hit Camelot early that winter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And the rain will beat against our bulwarks

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [pratarthur](pratarthur.tumblr.com) as part of [merlinchristmasfest](merlinchristmasfest.tumblr.com). I hope this is both angsty and h/c-y enough to fulfill your request!
> 
> This was beta'd by my fantastic friend Ella, but all errors and poor decisions belong to me. Please feel free to let me know if you spot anything that needs to be fixed!

Merlin wasn't supposed to be there.

It wasn't as though he didn't understand why, not when the walk had nearly robbed him of his flagging strength, and the very stone of the castle seemed to bleed the warmth out of him.

It wasn't that the prospect of staying in bed, motionless and warm and cared for, hadn't been achingly tempting.

It wasn't even fear, anymore, or simple concern.

He just couldn't stay away.

The final stretch of hall had never before loomed so dauntingly, and by the time Merlin reached the doors he was more inclined to lean against them than to pull them open. So he did. Just for a few moments.

Gods, he was tired. All those months of carrying water and washing and trays and weapons and who even knows what else, and today the weight of his own head seemed enough to topple him.

At least there was no one to see. No one to watch him rest his head against the wood and give in to his weakness for a handful of heartbeats, no one to see the tremors in his fingers as he finally found the handle. Gaius would have a thing or two to say when he got back, but he wasn't there, and he didn't have to know that Merlin was lying to himself, lying as hard as he'd ever lied and with no more success than usual.

Arthur's rooms were always warm, and today the heat rolled over him like a wave and pulled him in on a beckoning tide. The door latched behind him with a click, shutting out the rest of the world as Merlin made his tired way to the bed.

Arthur was sleeping, deep and peaceful in the soft wash of firelight, and it was easy - dangerously easy - to reach out quiet fingers to that jaw and smooth his thumb across that cheek. It was as simple and reckless as falling asleep to lean in close and press their foreheads together, sharing breath and life for just a moment.

He wouldn't go further. Not today. Today he was tired, and Arthur was sick, and things might happen that would be regretted and forgotten. 

So he pulled back, let himself sink into the bedside chair, and watched. Memorized the sounds of the hitches that still roughened Arthur’s breathing, lost himself to the play of golden light over his hair, willed Arthur to wake up and reassure him that he would be all right.

They had come so close to losing him.

The eternal rain drummed against the windowpanes as he waited, uncaring and unmindful of the score against it. Merlin had never minded rain, but after all that it had brought in the past few weeks - the destruction, the loss, the fear - there was no small measure of loathing. 

For a long while he simply sat, but as afternoon started to darken into evening and the light in the room deepened from honey to amber, a log on the fire snapped, sending up a hiss of sparks with a loud pop, and Arthur stirred.

It was small, and it could have been nothing, but somehow it wasn't. Then Arthur took a breath that was just a little deeper than the last, just a little heavier, and his eyes slid open.

At first it looked like he would drop off again - and Merlin knew it was a battle, fighting upwards through unimaginable exhaustion - but determination won out and Arthur blinked his weary way into waking.

"Hey," Merlin greeted softly, unable to hold back a small smile.

Arthur's gaze sharpened on him with something like alarm, then he sighed and let it drift up to the ceiling. "Merlin," he breathed. "What are you doing here?" He sounded drained, hoarse and rasping and so very tired.

"My job," Merlin told him, which wasn't really a lie. "How are you feeling?" Arthur looked better than the last time Merlin had seen him, though admittedly that wasn't saying much. He was still pale, and the same haunted look shadowed his fever-bruised eyes, but his breaths were steady and he was _awake._

Arthur ignored him. "Morgana told me you were ill.” There was accusation there, as well as something fragile, something nameless.

Merlin grimaced but didn't deny it. He knew he looked it, and it was no use trying to pretend otherwise. "It's not what you think. I was lucky." The sickness often lingered for far longer, with far more serious consequences than a day or two of fever and deadening exhaustion. "I asked them not to tell you."

Arthur closed his eyes and blew out a long breath. Merlin heard the tremor in it, saw the fight to separate reality from nightmare in knuckles gone white on a handful of blanket. "You shouldn't be here," he said shakily. "You should be resting, not—"

"Arthur—"

"You need to rest," he repeated, stubborn even now. "You know how dangerous this sickness is, seen how deadly it can be. I can’t—" He broke off, coughing, and jerked away. Merlin's own chest ached. "I can't risk you," he got out at last, curled on his side and fighting for air. "You’re— So many have died, and I can’t— Not you. Not you, too." 

Merlin slipped from the chair to the side of the bed, ghosts of inches between him and Arthur. Arthur opened red-rimmed eyes but said nothing, just looked up at him, painfully defenseless. Exhaustion tugged at the lines of his face, pulling them sharp and darkening the hollows that hung between them, wearing away at the stone of the ruler that shielded the weaknesses of the man beneath.

And Arthur _was_ weak right now, from fever and fear and the impossible weight of a wartime crown, from the demands of bearing up under the onslaught of death and suffering and the sleepless fight against an enemy that couldn’t be fought with swords and strength. He had watched a city fall into nightmare and torn himself apart trying to pull it back to the light, and in the end it hadn’t left him untouched. 

Merlin brushed back the hair clinging to Arthur’s forehead, let his palm rest against Arthur’s cheek. "You won't lose me," he said softly. "I'm fine, and I'm not leaving you.”

Arthur sighed tightly. “Merlin, please, don’t make me—”

“I promise. All of that. I swear it.”

There was a long silence, during which the rasps in Arthur’s breaths were far too clear and Merlin was aware of his own heart still beating to outpace itself. He tucked his hand back into his lap and concentrated on staying upright. Gaius would have a thing or two to say to the both of them, at this point. 

Finally Arthur gathered himself enough to turn himself over onto his back and ask, “How is Camelot?”

“Surviving,” Merlin said, and helped settle him against the pillows. “But that's not yours to worry about right now."

Arthur was too worn out for a proper glare, but he tried. "How can I not worry?" he asked tiredly. "Half the city is in ruin, hundreds if not _thousands_ of people are without food or shelter, and I—" He took a breath, let it go. "You cannot ask me not to worry, not when I— These are my people," he said simply, and Merlin could hear the blame twining with the loss. "Mine to protect, mine to care for..."

"You know this isn't your fault, right?" Merlin asked cautiously. It would be ridiculous to assume such a thing, but he wasn’t at all sure that Arthur knew that. "You know that none of this could have been prevented - not by you, not by anyone."

"There has to be something," Arthur insisted with the weariness of a long-run argument. "Something I could have done before, or during. But I wasn’t— I couldn't—"

Arthur was wringing the same handful of blanket mercilessly, flexing and clenching his fingers in the swordsman's frustrated habit. Merlin had seen that before, Arthur gripping goblets and reins and quills as though they were a weapon, as though having his sword in hand would allow him to defeat any threat, any problem.

A strange twist of anger and concern lodged itself between Merlin's ribs, and he reached out without thinking to cover Arthur's hand with his. The fingers stilled, and Merlin could feel how hot they were, how finely they trembled.

"Stop thinking like that," Merlin said lowly, firmly. "Don't do this to yourself. You nearly _died_. You nearly died, trying to help them, pushing yourself and pushing yourself - what more could you have done? What more can you do?"

Arthur's eyes fell closed then, not out of concession but in the effort to control his response. He pulled his hand out of Merlin's.

"I could be out there with them now," he said, tight-jawed. "I _should_ be."

Merlin knew then beyond doubt that Arthur wouldn't allow himself the luxury of these first days, restful and unaware. He wouldn't drift between quiet worlds, sheltered and ignorant of the suffering beyond his door. He wouldn't permit himself the weakness that plagued him, or capitulate to the fever that lingered.

Merlin knew Arthur, knew him better than perhaps even Arthur suspected, and he knew that from the moment he had opened his eyes to see Gaius hovering over him, Arthur had been choking on guilt.

He had been injured in the past, had certainly been ill, but this— This was no peacetime hunting accident, no January cold when the roads were safe from all but the most ragged of bandits. This to him was akin to abandoning his men at the height of battle, turning his back on his people when they needed nothing so much as a leader.

In his eyes, Arthur hadn't gotten sick; he'd failed his kingdom.

He'd only just woken, but it was no wonder that he already looked so impossibly careworn. At times like this, the centuries of history bearing down on him - demanding strength and perfection and nothing less than total dedication - were painfully apparent.

He'd only just woken, and already he was shrugging into the mantle of a ruler, preparing himself to return to the fight, longing for a sword, ready to struggle on until he was beaten to his knees and driven back to death's unforgiving door.

"How long have I been sick?" Arthur’s eyes stayed resolutely closed, like he was bracing himself against the answer.

"Gaius didn't tell you?" 

"Gaius isn't telling me anything," Arthur said, frustrated, and _oh. Oh._ Keeping Arthur in the dark was the worst way to keep him calm and inclined to rest. Gaius would have known that; Merlin detected Uther's touch. He had been frantic, especially during those final days.

"A little over a week," Merlin admitted. Arthur nodded shortly.

"And how many have died in that week?"

"I don't know."

" _Merlin_."

"I don't. But it's getting better out there, it really is. The king opened up the rest of the guest wings, and Gaius says—"

Arthur's eyes flew open. "What? When?" He fell into another spate of coughing, deep and rough, and turned away to weather it. Merlin rubbed his arm soothingly.

"Not long ago," he said, once the spell had passed and Arthur had got his breath back. "A few days, I suppose." _When he thought you were going to die, and that was the last thing you had asked of him._ "Everyone has a place, now, and Gaius thinks they're getting the outbreak under control."

Arthur's relief was tangible. "Oh, thank the gods," he muttered against the pillow, and seemed to relax for the first time in weeks. "I didn't think he would do it." 

"The people are very grateful to you for it."

"It was my father, not me," Arthur corrected automatically. 

"Perhaps," Merlin conceded. "But I've heard people talking, and they know you were behind everything. They know how much you do for them."

Arthur rolled onto his other side to face Merlin. "It should be more." He looked troubled, still, but some of the bleakness had faded. He seemed more tired than anything else, like he'd been drained of the last of his energy.

Merlin huffed. "I hate to have to tell you this, Arthur, but you are human. You have limits, just like everyone else."

"It's not the same." He was toying with the blankets again, picking at a loose thread in the edging. "I have a duty to them."

"You act like it falls on you to dry up all the flood waters and rebuild every house yourself. I don't think you understand how much something like...like a smile helps. Or a word of encouragement. Or even _seeing_ you out there. Seeing that you care. Your people don't need a god, they just need hope. They need you."

"You overestimate me." Arthur seemed to be having trouble keeping his eyes open, and concern twisted in Merlin's chest.

"You underestimate yourself," he countered, desperate to make him understand before he slipped away again. "You've done _good things_ , Arthur. You've _helped._ Getting the hall open, then the rest of the castle - that was huge. Getting rations to people, getting them food and clothing - that saved lives all on its own. Why do you insist on dwelling on what you haven't done when you've already done so much?"

Arthur looked up at him and focused with obvious difficulty. "Because people are still homeless, and sick, and dying. I can't rest until they can. I can't." 

"You have to," Merlin said softly. "You don't have a choice."

"I can't afford to. If I don't fight for them, who will?"

"They're all fighting. Everyone is, for themselves or their families. Just give people direction, and they'll follow. But you can't even do that right now, not like this. You have to let yourself recover, Arthur. You have to give yourself time to rest, and heal. You have to stop fighting yourself."

"Merlin..." Arthur's eyes were falling closed, fluttering against the pull of sleep, dark smudges in a pale face. 

"Please." Merlin gave into hours - days? months? - of temptation and let himself lean down to press a kiss to Arthur’s brow. The skin was fever-warm and soft against his lips. "Please, sleep," he whispered, not yet ready to pull back. "Camelot will be here in the morning."

Arthur breathed out a long sigh and finally surrendered. 

Merlin sat back and let out a sigh of his own. He'd probably never hear the end of this, if Arthur remembered when he was well. He knew Arthur knew, and had no reason to believe Arthur disagreed, but they'd been dancing. A touch here, a stolen glance there. Never anything definite, never anything real. Never anything that couldn't be brushed off later as casual or misread.

There was always the sickness, he supposed. Fever excused all sorts of indiscretions, but a line had been crossed, however fine, and the first move had been made.

Merlin should go. He should go back to Gaius' rooms and take his own advice, but couldn't find it in himself to stand. He was exhausted, too, if in different ways, for different reasons.

He didn't know how long he sat, trying to summon the energy to get to his feet, but when he finally pushed himself up and took those first few unsteady steps to the door, a low voice stopped him.

"Stay."

He looked back; Arthur's eyes were closed, but the word hung softly in the air.

"I shouldn't," Merlin tried, but he knew it was no use.

"Stay," Arthur said, barely a whisper.

Merlin stayed.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 12/29/2014


End file.
